Cocaine Studded Dreams
by moriartyspuppet
Summary: Sherlock is having a hard time dealing with his personal issues, and after a stint with drugs realizes just how much John's friendship means to him. Johnlock (because I can) I don't own any of the characters ect. Rated M for drug use, triggers and possible smut later.
1. Chapter 1

** A/N trying my hand after lurking forever! Reviews are always helpful but ummm enjoy some entertainment.~~**

John sat in the apartment and impatiently checked his watch. It was 2:30 am where on Earth was Sherlock. After living with his eccentric roommate for a few months he had become quite accustomed to Sherlock's odd late night activities, as well as the secrecy that shrouded his entire life but these ridiculous all night excursions were getting out of hand. John pulled out his phone. The screen stared back him blankly, no new messages. He groaned and ran his hand through his blonde hair.

Suddenly he heard loud footsteps crashing up the stairs. John swiveled in his chair ready to yell at the much overdue Sherlock, but refrained himself when Sherlock tumbled through the door.

The usually composed detective was shaken and lying on the floor wincing in pain. John rushed over to him, his usual mothering attitude overweighing any malice he had harboured towards Sherlock just seconds before. "Sherlock!" he cried, only eliciting a low moan from the other man's lips. "shit," John whispered to himself. He hoisted the severely underweight detective onto the couch . John checked him for any obvious wounds.

Sherlock's ankle was severely swollen and starting to bloom with purple bruises, his eye swollen shut with an expertly placed punch and his left forearm was littered with tick marks. John looked at his poor companion. He'd have to bring up the matters of the tick marks at a later date, but now he had to work quickly. He monitored Sherlock's heart rate, extremely elevated. John could feel the sweat starting to form on his forehead, and took note of how Sherlock was not starting to sweat, but was instead drenched with it. John cursed his idiot friend. He turned back to the tick marks on Sherlock's arms. They ranged from date but John noticed two that were still oozing small droplets of blood. Suddenly all the blood in the kind doctor's body ran cold. If this was an overdose there was no way that John could treat this by himself. He went to reach for his phone but was stopped by a cold bony hand. He looked back up at Sherlock, the consulting detective's usually sparkling blue eyes were glazed over and hazy.

"You don't have to call Mycroft," he managed to rasp out.

"Sherlock stop being ridiculous, I can't help you on your own," I shook off his weak hand and sent out the message.

_Sherlock is on some sort of bender and I think he got mugged, please help but be discreet._

_-JH_

Sherlock moaned in protest, but John got up to get him a glass of water and shook his head indignantly. How could Sherlock be so damn selfish, God he's such an idiot. John was stewing in his thoughts when he heard the weak shell of a man on the couch rasp out again,

"you're disappointed in me." Sherlock stated. His voice was still shallow and breathy but John could hear the hint of distress in his friends voice. But it still enraged him. He spun on his heel to face Sherlock.

"OF COURSE I'M DISAPPOINTED IN YOU!" The young doctor screamed at his companion. He could feel the heat rising to his face as he continued screaming at the pale figure. "Sherlock you said you were off the drugs, you didn't need them anymore. But clearly you're not!" John was getting more and more frustrated with his best mate. "I mean for godsake, like it wasn't bad enough you were ruining your body," Sherlock looked at him curiously, "don't act like you think all your razors were getting lost, I removed them whenever I saw them littered around the damn place," Sherlock flushed with shame, good, that's what John wanted. "But now you're ruining that brilliant fucking mind of yours with all these drugs and other vices that I can't even imagine." John stopped for a breath and looked at his now silent companion.

Sherlock had no words to defend himself against the onslaught that was an angry John Watson. The shorter blonde man could scream at him until he was blue in the face, but none of his stupid words or emotions would work on the detective. The cocaine and small cuts that littered his body were the only thing that comforted him from the prison that was his ever racing mind. And the only thing that took his mind off of how incredibly alone he was. Everytime John went on a date, or was out with friends it left a hole in Sherlock's heart. He would never admit it but he wanted the companionship that John had, he wanted someone to look at him with all the love and tenderness that John looked at his dates with. Sherlock wanted friends, and loyalty and. John had ceased his screaming so Sherlock looked up just in time to see Mycroft strolling into his flat twirling that stupid umbrella of his. "Brother dear," he drawled while looking over Sherlock's frail state, "what on Earth have you gotten yourself into?"

~~~~~**Well that's enough for now :x if anyone reads this I'll add another chapter THANK YOU FOR READING YOU'RE SO KIND~~~~**


	2. Chapter 2

A/N **oh my glob people actually read my story! So here's chapter two as promised! I don't own any of the characters, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the heart of Sherlock but it's my duty to burn it out of him ;) and BBC owns Benedict and Martin. ~~~~~~~~**

"_Brother dear," he drawled while looking over Sherlock's frail state, "What on Earth have you gotten yourself into?"_

Sherlock responded to Mycroft's jeer by turning his head away from him sharply in a very childish manner. Mycroft sighed and went to sit next to his brother. "I've already informed Greg and called for a private ambulance, we'll hide this story from the press best we can."

John stared at Mycroft with amazement. This was the kindest he had ever seen the older brother be to his young charge. Mycroft stood up and brushed his coat off before looking at John. He cleared his throat, "The ambulance should be here in a moment," he sighed looking at Sherlock, "make sure his vitals stay constant and Greg should be here to help you load this dead weight into the car." And just as suddenly as he had arrived Mycroft spun on his heels and marched out of their flat, umbrella in tow.

John panicked as he looked over Sherlock. His blue eyes were still hazy, and his pupils were the size of dinner plates. John rested two fingers lightly on his wrist, the young detective's pulse was racing, and his thin porcelain wrist was coated in a thin layer of sweat. John looked worriedly at Sherlock's face. His face was so pale and thin, it almost looked like glass. The beads of sweat ran from under Sherlock's messy mop of brown hair down his face, and got soaked up by his fine white shirt. John got up, grumbled and went to go fetch his friend a wet washcloth. He ignored Sherlock's moans of pain and protest from the couch, "John I'm going to die," he heard the younger man rasp from the couch. John shook his head and chuckled to himself, Sherlock was always one for theatrics.

"You're not going to die," he yelled from the bathroom. His comment was created with a snort from Sherlock. The doctor shook his head, god he was so impossible. He returned to his friend and placed the cold washcloth on the younger man's forehead. Sherlock shuddered at first as the cold compress touched his forehead. His head was pounding. He gingerly pressed his finger to his swollen eye, he felt it pulsing. "John what time is it?" he asked his companion.

"Sherlock it is three in the morning." John said in an irritated tone. Sherlock turned away a slight flush rising on his cheekbones. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. John arched an eyebrow. "I'm sorry I don't think I heard you correctly," he retorted. It was very unlike the young detective to admit he was wrong about something. Sherlock opened his mouth to repeat what he said but Detective Inspector Lestrade sprung through the door taking long strides to be at Sherlock's side.

"ARE YOU BARKING MAD?!" Lestrade screamed at him. Sherlock looked up at him with his now dead eyes. John could see Lestrade's harsh face soften when he saw how miserable Sherlock was. He sighed and put his arm under Sherlock's limp limb, "come on you useless sod, let's go." John hurriedly ran under Sherlock's other arm.

The two men hoisted the dead weight down the stairs, past a panicked Mrs. Hudson. "Is Sherlock okay?" she asked, trying to follow them out the door. "He's fine," Lestrade answered curtly, helping the paramedics place Sherlock on the stretcher. Mrs. Hudson sighed and walked back into the flat, clearly this was none of her business.

John and Greg loaded themselves into the back of the ambulance with Sherlock. The once alert detective was sinking in and out of consciousness, his eyes becoming increasingly glassy. The paramedics placed an oxygen mask over Sherlock's face and hooked him up to various IV's. Sherlock's breathing had become labored and shallow. He looked like a fish trying to survive in a mud puddle.

John placed his hand in Sherlock's now limp, bony hand. He looked hopelessly as the DI, who just sighed at him in return. Everyone knew this day would come. The day where Sherlock would push himself just a little too hard. The day where his constant abuse towards his delicate body would catch up to him and cause that frail body of his to breakdown and give up on him.

When they finally arrived at St. Barts Sherlock was rushed immediately to his own private room, his face hidden expertly from prying eyes. The doctors working on Sherlock were obviously part of Mycroft's extensive network. They worked quickly, setting and casting Sherlock's clearly broken ankle, disinfecting and bandaging his swollen eye. They carefully bandaged the tick marks on Sherlock's left arm, after thoroughly cleaning each one. John watched nervously, and was startled when one of the doctor's came up to him, "You're his roommate right?" John nodded and tried to swallow the nonexistent saliva in his mouth. "Excellent, I need to speak to you for a moment." John nodded again and followed the doctor into the hallway.

The doctor cleared his throat and stared at the stocky blonde man in front of him. "Sherlock is fine," he started with, John exhaled with relief, "but," the doctor continued, "we'll have to run some tests on him when he's conscious." John raised an eyebrow at the doctor. "Right, we'll have to do a basic STD test, we don't know if those needles he used were clean, and a few other tests, and of course he'll have to come back for checkups and regular drug tests." John inhaled sharply and the doctor gave him a curious look. "He's not going to like that," the younger doctor replied. The man in the lab coat laughed, "Well that's too bad isn't it?" John laughed nervously back at the doctor. " Also," the doctor continued, "keep a close eye on him, his thighs are littered with small wounds, and I don't know if that's an accident or what, but please watch him." John nodded stiffly and walked back into the room to be greeted with a screaming indignant Sherlock.

**DUN DUN DUN CLIFFHANGER, I know I'm worse than Moffat. Anyways, as always thank you for reading, please review it really helps me I promise 3**


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